


Something New

by shakti108



Series: Mingling [5]
Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Time, Joy of Gay Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-07 08:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17362271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: "Are we seriously fighting over who's getting fucked first?""Yes," Jon confirmed.





	1. One

For most of his life, Jon had thought Newark was the worst city on earth. But now that they'd been in Indianapolis for an hour, he realized he'd been dead wrong. It was actually a relief to arrive at their dull, strangely scented hotel room.

He dropped his bag on the bed on his side of the room. "Christ," he muttered. "Can we just stay here?"

He turned to find Richie had already stealthily moved into his personal space.

"Definitely," he replied, cupping Jon's face and planting one on his lips.

For a moment Jon just stood there dumbly. But once the surprise passed, he gave in -- slipping a hand to the back of Richie's head and threading his fingers into the gloriously product-free hair.

When they pulled away for air, he was greeted with that familiar dopey grin.

"You seem really happy to be in Indianapolis," Jon commented.

The grin got dopier, and he noticed that Richie's arms were still wrapped around his waist. So he gently extricated himself from the situation and took a step back.

He just wasn't quite comfortable with that kind of non-sex-related, couple-y contact yet. Thankfully, Richie had only done it a couple times, and hadn't seem fazed when Jon casually eased away.

Richie shrugged. "We haven't kissed since yesterday."

He ducked his head, in that "I'm so shy" way, and Jon wanted to applaud. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing -- He'd nabbed countless girls with that shtick.

But Jon was not a chick.

He rolled his eyes. "We don't have time now. We'll suck each other off later."

Richie tried to look offended. "It was a kiss. No ulterior motive."

Jon gave him a dubious look, then turned to unpack his bag.

"No, really," Richie went on, moving to his bed. "I don't even wanna get sucked off later."

Jon snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Seriously," Richie insisted. After a beat he spoke again, in a more sly tone. "It's getting old, actually."

"Ha-ha," Jon drawled, pulling his treasured snakeskin leather pants from his bag.

Then he paused, as a quick succession of R-rated thoughts passed through his mind. He turned to Richie with his own patented sexy stare.

"Wait. Really?" he asked. "Does that mean you're up for something new?"

Richie halted, his hideous purple-and-yellow spandex t-shirt in hand.

"Um. What do you mean?"

Jon smiled. "You know what I mean."

Richie dropped the shirt on the bed and turned to face him. "Well," he began, a delightful little catch in his voice. "I guess it depends."

"On what?"

"You know."

Jon furrowed his brow. "You'll have to be more specific."

Richie cast his eyes down, and for once Jon wasn't sure if he was trying to look innocent, or if it was genuinely from nerves.

"Y'know … It depends on _how._ "

Jon smiled again, even though his heart was starting to race. "Ohhh, you mean, should I do you, or should you do me?"

Richie looked up again, clearly annoyed. "Yes."

"Huh," Jon said, struggling to keep his tone light. "I think I should definitely do you."

Richie's eyebrows shot up. "Wh -- Why?" he sputtered.

"It just makes sense."

Richie shook his head. "Right. You're just scared. And it should definitely be me doing you, by the way."

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Why would that be?"

"You look like the girl." And the son of a bitch smiled.

_Oh, hell no._

"Are you kidding me?" Jon demanded. "Do you realize how long you spend on your hair? And you wear more eyeliner than any chick I've ever seen. _And_ you go for all that girly, scented-candle shit."

He crossed his arms, like he was daring Richie to beat that list. They stared each other down for a few long seconds, until Richie finally sighed.

"Are we seriously fighting over who's getting fucked first?"

"Yes," Jon confirmed.

"Great," Richie deadpanned. "I'm so turned on."

Jon sighed. He'd been thinking about this possible next step, on and off, for a few days -- ever since Richie told him he'd fantasized about it. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to try it. And the more he wanted it, the more he realized they had to know what the fuck they were doing.

"Yeah, I know it's not romantic or whatever," he said. "But honestly? Someone has to volunteer to go first."

Richie blinked. " _Has_ to? You're sweeping me off my feet, Jonny."

Jon rolled his eyes. He was well aware they were losing any spontaneity here, and maybe in Richie's fantasies it all played out flawlessly, out of thin air. But this was reality, so he decided to be blunt.

"Do you wanna be swept off your feet, or do you wanna fuck without it being a disaster?"

Richie stared for a moment. "Uh … I think the second one."

Jon nodded. "OK. Then it takes some planning. It's not the same as with a girl."

"No kidding," Richie grumbled. "But I ain't going to the library to check out _The Joy of Gay Sex._ That's on you."

"No problem," Jon said with exaggerated sarcasm. He did, in fact, want to do some reading -- He'd been meaning to ever since Richie's confession. But there was no way in hell he was divulging that plan.

"OK," he said, regrouping. "Back to the original question. I think you should definitely go first."

"Why?" Richie exclaimed, in such a high-pitched tone Jon had to smile.

"You're older."

"Yeah?"

"So you should lose your ass-virginity first."

Richie shook his head. "Age is meaningless. I'm extremely immature."

Jon couldn't argue with that, but he had a better counterpoint. "You're bigger, though."

Richie appeared momentarily surprised, then broke out into a grin. "You're admitting it? Wow."

Jon rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, fine. And that means it's not fair for me to go first."

He was shamelessly aiming at the squishy center of Richie's heart. And it seemed to be working because he started chewing on his bottom lip -- a sure sign he was mulling it over. So Jon pressed on.

"You go first, and if you're OK with it, I can try."

It was clearly a tactical error, though, because Richie's squishy expression hardened over. "You want me to be the anal guinea pig?"

Jon felt a little shudder run through him. "Did you have to put it _that_ way?"

"Well, that's what you said. If I survive intact, then you'll try."

Jon sighed in frustration. "I wouldn't hurt you. You know that."

"You think I'd hurt you?"

"Not on purpose."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jon pressed his lips together, contemplating his next words. "It's just that you can get … carried away, y'know? I have more self-control."

This time Richie looked genuinely offended. "So what? … I'm nicer."

Jon screwed up his face. "What's _that_ supposed to mean? I'm nice," he added petulantly.

"You're usually nice," Richie informed him. "Except when you're in a bitchy mood."

_The fuck?_

OK, it was true, he knew. But it had no relevance to this particular scenario.

"Well," he replied, bitch mode on, "I promise you I'll be in a great mood when I'm buried in your ass."

He hadn't planned on saying something so raw, and as soon as the words were out he felt an unexpected jolt below his belt. Richie just gaped at him for a few moments, the color building in his cheeks.

"Um," he finally said. "OK."

Jon took a breath, trying to gain control of his voice. "OK, what?"

Richie looked a little dazed. "Just … OK. I'm kinda stuck on that mental image you just gave me."

Jon allowed a small smile. "Yeah. Me, too."

Richie moved to sit down at the foot of his bed. "Can we take a break from the insanity for a second?"

Jon walked over and plopped down next to him. "Sure."

He let some silence pass between them before speaking again. "So. When you'd imagine it, how did it go?"

Richie groaned. "Don't start."

Jon held up his hands. "Hey -- you said _a second._ "

He saw Richie's lips twitching as he valiantly fought a smile, and he knew he'd won the day.

"Listen," Jon went on, softening his tone. "I'm just asking you what you want."

Richie kept his gaze on his own hands. "I dunno. I guess I've thought about it different ways. Like, sometimes it's you" -- He gestured vaguely with his hand -- "And sometimes it's me."

Jon let out a low whistle, partly to distract himself from his growing physical response to the conversation. "Jeez. How many times have you thought about it?"

Richie glanced at him with a coy smile. "More than a couple."

_Christ._

Jon wanted to tackle him right then and there. But he hadn't read a single page of _The Joy of Gay Sex_ yet.

"OK," he replied slowly. "So … maybe we'll just figure it out when the time comes."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "You sure you don't wanna make an appointment? Like it's a haircut?"

Jon scoffed. "Since when do we get haircuts?"

This time Richie let himself smile, and Jon relaxed a bit. He knew the conversation wasn't over, but they also couldn't hole up in there forever. He glanced at the clock.

"Um, we've gotta meet the guys soon, so" -- He hooked a thumb toward the bathroom -- "I'm gonna …"

"Yeah, OK."

Jon got up and started to walk away, but paused in the doorway to look back over his shoulder. He couldn't resist a parting shot.

"I do hope this town has a good library."

Richie held his gaze and smiled. "Me, too."


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hmm," Richie observed, raising his eyebrows. "It has illustrations. That's helpful."

"You made photocopies?" Richie asked incredulously.

"Of course." Jon pushed aside some empty beer cans and dropped a small stack of papers on the table.

He turned to face Richie, who was sprawled out on _his_ bed, with his disgusting sneakers on, flipping through the channels. Jon wanted to bitch at him for the lack of boundaries, but bit his tongue. There were more important matters to discuss.

He crossed his arms. "If you think you're getting anywhere near my ass without some studying, you're crazy."

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Do you have to make it feel like the SATs?"

Jon dropped into the chair by the table. "Don't start with me. I'm the one who was just creeping through the Indianapolis Public Library looking at gay porn."

Richie perked up. "Porn?"

_Of course._

Jon shook his head. A little recognition would be nice, seeing as he'd spent the morning photocopying passages from _The Joy of Gay Sex,_ in a Midwestern library full of moms, kids and grandpops -- one of the more surreal experiences of his life.

He'd taken pains to disguise himself, too. Hair tucked under a baseball cap and the hood of his sweatshirt, enormous sunglasses covering half his face. He'd looked like the fucking Unabomber.

Richie smiled, probably sensing his annoyance. "Thank you, Jonny," he said in a singsong voice.

"Whatever," Jon replied dismissively, but he couldn't help smiling a little in return.

Richie hauled himself to his feet and strolled over, casually glancing at the paper stack. "So. What were your findings, Professor Bongiovi?"

Jon blew out a breath. "Well, the title of the book is misleading. It's not all joy, man."

Richie pushed his bottom lip out, like a kid who didn't get what he wanted from gay Santa.

"But," Jon added, brightly. "It clearly states one thing: The taller one should bottom first."

Richie wrinkled his nose. "Bottom?"

Jon grinned, feeling more than a little smug. "You've never heard it called that?" he teased.

"Sure," Richie said, too quickly. "I just … don't like it."

Jon kept smiling. "Uh-huh. Well, get used to it." At Richie's look, he added, "The word, I mean."

Richie rolled his eyes. "And bullshit there's anything about the _taller_ one."

"Hey, I did the research, and made the copies." Jon jutted his chin toward the paper stack. "Check out the last page -- it's from the index."

Richie eyed him suspiciously but did what he was told, scanning the page for a moment before letting out a snort.

"Nice." He turned the text toward Jon, tapping his finger next to the altered line.

**Bottom:** see Richie Sambora.

"But I'd recognize your girly handwriting anywhere."

"Ohhhh," Jon said in mock-dismay, "that really hurts."

Richie smirked as he picked up the stack. He started to walk away, but stopped in his tracks after a couple steps.

"Wait," he said, turning around. "You wrote that into the book? So it's permanently there now?"

Jon nodded. "You're gonna be very popular with a certain segment of our Indianapolis fans."

Richie gazed at him in open admiration. "I never realized you were such a dick -- pun intended."

Then he continued on, flopping onto his stomach -- on Jon's bed -- to peruse the joys of anal sex. Jon almost laughed at his studious expression as he looked over the top page containing the table of contents.

"Hmm," Richie observed, raising his eyebrows. "It has illustrations. That's helpful."

Jon pushed to stand and went over to join him, just to gauge his reactions.

"First entry," Richie recited, as Jon sat down, cross-legged, next to him. "Anus."

He looked up. "They really dive right in, don't they?"

"Keep reading," Jon encouraged, propping his chin on his hand.

"Culturally induced fears," Richie read aloud, "have given many people phobias about their assholes."

He paused and looked skyward. "I like my asshole. His name's Jon."

"Yeah, yeah. Keep reading."

Richie cleared his throat. "Yet the anus is not only an avenue for elimination" -- He made an _ew_ face -- "It's also a sexual organ. It is highly sensitive, as it's lined with particularly responsive nerve endings. Moreover, it's close to the prostate gland, and its stimulation is highly pleasurable."

Jon smiled as Richie shifted his hips on the bed. A moment later, though, things soured.

"Oh." Richie said, sounding suddenly serious. He craned his head to look at Jon. "You have to clean yourself first?"

Jon nodded solemnly. He'd been distraught when he read about that, too.

Richie looked almost comically perplexed. "How the fuck do you even do that?"

"That's later in the book."

"Jesus. I can't deal with that right now. Where's the joy part?" Richie asked plaintively, thumbing through the next few pages until he apparently struck gold.

"Oh here," he said, instantly cheering. "Positions. 'Bottoms Up' sounds fun."

"It does," Jon agreed, his voice already getting a little huskier. It was hard not to notice that Richie was lying on his belly while reading that particular entry, but he decided to keep his mouth shut.

He listened as Richie read aloud again.

"For the man turned on by the touch and sight of buns, nothing is more exciting than seeing a partner lying on his stomach, legs spread wide, waiting to get fucked."

Richie shifted again, not even trying to be subtle about it.

"When your partner's on his belly," he continued valiantly, "his buns are curved, and supple, and susceptible. Putting a pillow underneath his hips will make his ass even more prominent."

Richie paused and let out a shaky little laugh. "Um. Yeah."

"Yep," Jon said, gazing at Richie's profile, though he refused to look back. He seemed momentarily fixated on the image, as Jon had been -- in the middle of a public library.

Richie took a deep breath. "Maybe we should look at some pictures."

He put a couple more sheets aside before he found what he was looking for. "Ah, now we're talkin'. I believe this would be doggy style."

Jon leaned over for a peek.

"I have to say," Richie commented, "this cat with the 'stache has quite the six-pack going."

"Hmm."

He turned to the next page, and his face brightened. "Oh, nipple action -- right on."

Jon smiled. "You do like that, don't you?"

Richie nodded. "And mustache man here seems to know how to work that tongue. You should emulate his techniques."

Jon felt his smile fading. "Are you saying I _don't_ know how to use my tongue?"

Richie looked at him like he was nuts. "I was kidding. Have I ever complained?"

Jon pondered that. He couldn't remember any negative reviews, but the perfectionist in him needed affirmation.

"You don't complain," he acknowledged. "But you're going on about mustache man like he's god's gift."

He felt incredibly stupid as soon as he'd said it. And the feeling only worsened as Richie stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

"Are you … jealous? He's a drawing, Jonny."

Jon scowled. "I know. I just thought …"

He decided to shut up before he embarrassed himself any further.

Richie's smile softened from taunting to something like sympathy, and Jon wanted to squirm under his gaze.

"I love your tongue," Richie murmured, pressing up to sit. He brought a hand to Jon's face and ran his thumb along the cheekbone. "Let me show you."

The kiss was gentle and slow -- clearly, Jon realized, not a prelude to sex. And that somehow made him feel a little weird. He was the one to break the kiss first, pulling back and nodding at their homework.

"You have studying to do, young man."

Richie pulled a face. "Don't talk like that. I saw 'daddy fantasies' in the table of contents."

Jon cringed, remembering. "Don't worry. I didn't copy that part."

Richie chuckled then reached out to rub his back. And again, Jon instinctively bristled at the touch. It was ridiculous, he knew, to be shying away from a caress, given what they'd been doing -- and might do.

But he couldn't help it.

"Um, I'm gonna lie down for a while before we have to leave," he said, avoiding eye contact with Richie as he stood up. "Maybe try to catch a nap."

"Oh. OK."

Jon wasn't sure, but he thought he detected disappointment in Richie's voice. He tried to push it out of his mind as he crawled into the other bed, curling onto his side and shutting his eyes.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He'd just photocopied a sex manual so he could be with the guy, but he couldn't handle a peck on the lips and an innocent touch?

Across the room Richie hissed, and Jon figured he'd probably gotten to the entry on fisting -- which he'd included as a joke. He smiled a little, despite himself. Not that he blamed Richie. The word was enough to freak Jon out.

That's when it struck him: He was getting worked up over the word Richie had used. Love.

Yeah, it was a remark about his tongue. But he'd learned long ago that with Richie, it wasn't so much the words that mattered, but how he said them and how he looked at you. And he'd been looking at Jon, and touching him, in a different way in recent days.

_Shit._

He'd known, in the abstract, that this could happen, or probably would happen. But the idea of Richie being in love with him after just a few weeks of -- whatever they were calling it -- was slightly terrifying. Much scarier than anything in a gay-sex manual.

Because then what the fuck were they were going to do?

Dimly, he thought back to the night when he'd made that pact to stop worrying so much and just go with the flow.

Richie had seemed skeptical. "That's the exact opposite of who you are."

And he'd been right. Jon couldn't decide to stop brooding over the future any more than he could decide to stop breathing.

Breathing. That was a good idea. He willed himself to breath long and slow, in and out. It was all he knew to do. No one, he was sure, had ever written a manual about this.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... the little touches, the innocent pecks, the presumption that his bed was open territory. That was the kind of shit couples did.

Jon woke to what sounded like some kind of beast dying right next to his ear. It took a moment of blinking into the blackness for his hazy mind to register exactly where he was -- the scratchy sheets and "hotel" smell signaling that he was, in fact, in his bed.

He groaned as the sounds bore deeper into his skull, then slowly turned his head to the right, toward the source. The beast that was Richie, snoring.

_Fucking hell._

It all started coming back to him -- the epic amounts of whiskey they'd downed after the show, the bar crawl, the shots of 90 percent-proof vodka. Jon had learned by now that the more Richie drank, the louder he got -- snoring and otherwise.

But why was the bastard even in his bed? They hadn't messed around, at least that he could remember.

Jon peered at the clock and growled in annoyance. Almost 6 a.m., which meant he'd been asleep for maybe an hour.

He looked back to the human bulldozer. "Hey," he said, pushing at Richie's shoulder. "Shut up."

That drew a whiny noise, but at least the snoring stopped.

"Why are you in my bed?"

Richie mumbled something that sounded like _merfum._

"Seriously," Jon persisted, pushing at his shoulder again. "Go to your own bed. You're like a chainsaw."

"Yernuf," Richie said.

_Jesus Christ._

"Fine. I'll move."

Jon sat up, but an almost violent spinning in his head sent him crashing down into his pillow again.

He moaned, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until the whirling started to slow. And that's when the snoring resumed, full-throttle.

"Ugh." Jon reached a hand out blindly, landing it on Richie's face. "I'm gonna fucking smother you."

Richie whimpered and swatted his hand away. But again, Jon won respite from the brain-shredding noise.

"Rich, please," he beseeched through the dark. "Go sleep in your bed -- No, the bathtub. You're driving me crazy."

"Hmm … wha?"

"You're _snoring,_ you idiot."

"Mm." Richie sighed. "Can't help it."

Jon kicked lightly at his legs. "Then get away from me."

Richie made a sound of protest, but a moment later started to push to sit. He immediately dropped back to the pillow, however -- apparently catching the same case of vertigo.

"Ugh. Jonny, don't make me move. Gonna be sick."

Jon mercilessly kicked him again. "Then go to the bathroom."

"Stop," Richie whined.

Jon sighed. He was too exhausted to push a six-foot toddler out of his bed. "You've gotta stay on your side like that. Don't face me."

"Fine," Richie said, sounding miserable.

Jon felt a twinge of guilt, but resolved to stand firm. He had to get some sleep.

"And if you start snoring again, I am gonna smother you," he added, though his voice belied the words. "I can hire a new guitarist."

"Hmm," was the reply. Begrudgingly, Jon smiled a little as he turned onto his side and closed his eyes.

*****

The next time he awoke, it was distinctly more pleasant. There was no migraine-inducing rumble, just the tickle of a warm breath by his ear. And then soft lips on the side of his neck.

"Sorry about the snoring," Richie murmured, before wrapping his arm around Jon's waist and pressing up against his back. "Am I allowed to face you now?" he added hopefully.

Jon automatically placed his hand on Richie's, but then paused, feeling off somehow. And then he remembered.

"S'ok," he said gruffly, letting his hand drop. "I was a little surprised is all."

He felt a puff of breath on his neck as Richie chuckled. "You know I snore to wake the dead when I'm wasted."

"Yeah," Jon agreed, keeping his eyes on a random spot of comforter. "I just mean, I was surprised you were in my bed. We didn't do anything, right?"

He felt Richie tense slightly. "Uh, no -- not that I remember."

"We both have clothes on," Jon pointed out, reasonably. "So we probably didn't."

"Right … So am I not supposed to sleep in your bed? Unless we mess around?"

"No," Jon replied quickly, then hesitated. "I mean, you can. I just wasn't expecting it."

There was an awkward silence, and Richie moved his hand from Jon's belly to his shoulder. "Does it bother you?"

"No," Jon said, still looking at the bedding.

"It doesn't bother me," he lied again, when Richie didn't respond.

After a beat, Richie gave him another quick kiss on the neck. "OK."

He rolled onto his back, and Jon had to wonder if it was all as simple to him as it seemed. Because it wasn't simple at all.

And the truth was, he was bothered -- by the little touches, the innocent pecks, the presumption that his bed was open territory. That was the kind of shit couples did.

That stuff came with dating, and meeting parents, and buying presents, and planning birthday surprises. And sure, he'd been around Richie's parents a hundred times, and he'd bought him presents. And maybe he was planning a surprise for Richie's twenty-sixth birthday in a few weeks. But that was just because twenty-sixth birthdays were a big fucking deal.

None of that mattered anyway, because they weren't a couple, and no one thought they were.

And that, Jon was certain, was how it needed to be.

Maybe Richie was able to separate the fantasy world of their hotel room from the reality of their lives, but Jon couldn't. How the fuck could they be a couple?

Already, Dave and Alec were bugging him about his reclusiveness and lack of "availability" for their groupies. And he couldn't blame them. As much as Jon denied it at times, they all knew his looks -- his appeal to women -- were vital to their future.

Oh, and then there was the fact that he actually loved women. On the most primitive level, he missed -- deeply missed -- the feeling of his dick moving inside a warm, receptive body.

He was acutely aware there was a warm and potentially receptive body right next to him.

But a part of him was terrified that if he fucked Richie, he'd really, really like it. And if he let Richie fuck him, this touchy-feely couple stuff would only get more intense.

Either way, he'd be screwed.

The bed shifted. "Um. I'm gonna jump in the shower," Richie said. "You mind?"

He forced himself to look over his shoulder and smile. "I insist -- you stink."

Richie smiled back, though there was a hint of uncertainty. He lifted his hand, as if he was going to touch Jon, but then pulled back.

That was good, Jon told himself. It was what he wanted.

As Richie got up and walked to the bathroom, Jon rolled onto his back to watch him. If he felt a little wave of disappointment, he decided to ignore it.

*****

By the time Richie emerged from the bathroom, Jon was trying to work out a melody on his acoustic. Because any time he needed to rein himself in, music never failed.

"Hey," Jon said, not looking up. "Listen to this --"

"I'll do it."

"Huh?" Jon stilled his hands.

Richie walked a little closer to the bed. "I'll do it," he repeated. "I'll go first."

Jon just opened and closed his mouth, like a fucking guppy. "Y-you mean …"

Richie nodded then averted his eyes. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Jon could only stare at first, torn between the surge of blood to his groin and the distress blossoming in his chest.

"Wha -- No," he said, gripping the guitar like a shield. "I mean, yes. But … only if you really want it."

Richie looked at him sharply, his face instantly coloring. "Oh. I didn't mean for it to sound like … It's not like it's a sacrifice or something."

He held his hands up in mock-defense. "Oh no, Jon Bon Jovi's gonna fuck me. Help."

Jon just kept staring because he wasn't sure what exactly was going on. It was more than a little suspicious that Richie had jumped out of the shower determined to get rammed.

"But," he said hesitantly, "why did you just decide that?"

Richie shrugged. "I didn't _just_ … I've been thinking about it." He darted his eyes to the side again. "Like, every day. Many times."

He looked at Jon and smiled softly. "So … What do you think?"

Jon felt his throat go dry. "Um," he said, looking down at his guitar. "Could you put some clothes on maybe? It'll be easier to talk."

"Oh." Richie sounded surprised. "Yeah, OK."

Jon didn't lift his gaze again until Richie had dressed and plopped down on the other bed. When he looked over, the abject confusion in Richie's face made him feel like his chest was caving in.

"Um, I want to," Jon began, a little quaver in his voice. "I really, really want to. But, uh, I feel like you're trying to make me happy."

Richie's eyes widened. "No. No way, man. I mean, I'm not a masochist."

Jon couldn't help smiling a bit. "I guess not. But … I know you're nervous."

Richie bobbed his head side to side. "Yeah. But so are you."

_Baby, you have no fucking idea._

Jon sighed. "Maybe we should flip a coin."

Richie chuckled. "Yeah."

But as they sat there and Jon stewed on his off-handed statement a little longer, the less crazy it seemed. It was actually practical and -- more importantly to him -- non-emotional. That was key.

He looked at Richie. "No, really. Let's flip a coin."

Richie just gaped for a long moment. "This isn't a football game, Jonny."

Jon shrugged. "So what? We both wanna try it, but we're both scared. A coin toss just makes sense."

Richie continued to stare, for so long that Jon became concerned. "Um," he finally said. "I guess?"

Jon nodded, an odd sense of relief washing over him. "OK."

Richie shook his head, appearing slightly bewildered. "OK," he mimicked Jon's nonchalance.

"Great. I think I have a coin."

Richie huffed a disbelieving little laugh. "Great … You're tails, though."

Jon smiled. "Fuck you," he said half-heartedly.

Richie returned the smile, looking a little more like himself. "We haven't flipped the coin yet."


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon had seen him poring over those pages from _The Joy of Gay Sex,_ but it all seemed so ridiculous now ... There were no chapters on what to do when your band found out, or your record label, or your fans.

"OK," Jon said, cradling the precious quarter in his palm. "You call it."

He made a fist then poised the quarter over his thumb, causing Richie to wrinkle his nose.

"You're gonna do it that way? Just toss it."

Jon glared at him. "I do it this way."

"Of course you do."

"Shut up -- I mean, call it, then shut up."

Richie leaned over to peer at the coin. "Heads. _Duh._ "

Jon rolled his eyes. "Fine."

He took a deep breath then flicked his thumb, sending the quarter arcing and spinning -- and into Richie's hand.

"What are you doing?" Jon demanded, grabbing his wrist.

"Catching the coin, dipshit."

"You're supposed to let it drop."

Richie sighed heavily. "Who cares? _I_ do it this way."

"Well, I'm in charge of this coin toss."

"Christ almighty," Richie muttered.

"So it's a do-over," Jon declared, snatching the quarter back and readying it on his thumb. "Call it."

Richie just looked at him, and Jon gave a quick nod. "Heads it is."

This time the coin took a wide arc, hitting the wall and falling behind the TV console.

"Are you kidding me?" Richie bitched.

Jon bit his lip. "Uh, sorry. Can you get it?"

"Unh-uh. It's your fault."

"Your arms are longer. Just get it."

Richie mumbled something he couldn't quite catch, but did as told -- dropping down on all fours and peeking under the cabinet.

"Ugh, I don't know what all is under there, man."

"Don't be a baby," Jon scolded. "Just reach under and grab it."

Richie glanced over his shoulder. "That's what you'll be sayin' to me later."

Jon couldn't resist smiling as Richie slid his arm under the console.

"Jesus, this is tight," he grunted. "I'm gonna get stuck."

Jon's smile broadened. " _That's_ what I'll be saying to you later."

Richie started laughing, the side of his face smashed against the carpet. "Don't make me laugh like this," he pleaded. "Seriously, I think I'm stuck."

Jon made no move to assist. "Fine by me. You're right in position."

"I said don't make me laugh, you bitch."

After a couple college tries, Richie wrestled his arm free, pulling some suspicious debris out along the way. He sat on the floor, rubbing his arm and giggling like a dork.

"Well?" Jon said, fighting to keep his face straight. "Did you get it?"

"Fuck off," Richie said through a cough. "And find another quarter."

Jon held up his hands. "I'm not a slot machine. I don't know if I have another."

He noticed a red-ish indentation on Richie's bicep and felt a bit guilty -- which was nuts, since it wasn't exactly a grave injury.

"Lemme check my pockets," he said, moving to grab his jacket from the chair. "If not, I'll go ask Dave or Teek."

"Sure," Richie agreed, as he stood up. "Just tell 'em we're doing a coin toss to see who's on top tonight. I bet they won't even be surprised."

Jon paused in his search, feeling a little flutter of anxiety. "What do you mean?"

Richie simply shrugged.

Jon pinned him with a stare. "You think the guys know something?"

So it wasn't just his imagination. If Richie was getting vibes, too …

Richie's eyes widened. "I was just kidding, man."

"Uh-huh," Jon replied skeptically, resuming his coin quest. "I don't think you said that for nothin'."

Richie let his shoulders slump. "Jonny, don't get all moody now. It was a dumb joke -- Sorry."

Finally, in the inner pocket, Jon found what he was looking for.

"Ah-ha!" he proclaimed, dramatically pulling the quarter free. "The coin toss is back on. We'll talk about what you said later."

Richie rolled his eyes, but then smiled, clearly happy the sex train was back on track.

"OK," Jon said, balancing the coin. "So we're letting it drop --"

"Unless you launch it into space --"

"-- and if it's heads, you win. Tails, you lose."

Richie nodded. Jon took a steadying breath before flicking the coin into a gentle arc and watching it plop onto the carpet.

They both looked down.

Heads.

_Oh shit._

Richie raised a fist into the air with a "woot," and Jon immediately turned on him.

"Why are you so excited?"

Richie blinked. "Because I won?"

"Yeah." Jon crossed his arms. "And 'winning' means you get fucked by me."

Richie shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no, no, no. That's not what it means and you know it."

Jon did know it. But he couldn't help trying to convince his opponent otherwise.

Richie, however, set his jaw and matched Jon's stance of defiance. "You can't just change the rules to get what you want, Jonny. They teach that in kindergarten."

Jon furrowed his brow. "They teach you how to do an anal-sex coin toss in kindergarten?"

Richie made a little growly sound -- the one Jon liked under different circumstances. Then they stood there in a stare-down until, predictably, Richie looked away.

He sighed. "I mean, if you don't want to, then you don't want to."

Jon let his arms fall by his sides, his eyes automatically focusing on the stupid red mark on Richie's arm. For some reason, he thought of the afternoon before, when Richie was so diligently studying those photocopied pages from the library. Jon's first instinct had been to make fun of him, but for once he'd found he didn't have the heart.

He stepped forward to cup Richie's cheek and land a quick kiss.

"I want to," he assured. "I'm just being a jerk -- I want to."

As he said the words he realized he meant them.

Richie appeared less convinced. "You sure?"

Jon nodded. "Absolutely."

He noticed that he was still brushing his thumb along Richie's cheekbone, so he stepped back.

Richie hesitated but then gradually started to smile. "OK." He glanced back and forth between Jon and the carpet. "So, when do you think you'll …"

He let the question hang in the air, and Jon was sure he'd never seen his face turn so red so quickly, at least outside of bed.

"How about tomorrow night?" He said it casually, but his heartbeat immediately jumped at the prospect. "We don't have a show."

Richie stared owlishly before finding his voice. "Wh-- Sure. You'll be … ready?"

Jon shrugged, like it was nothing. "Yeah."

Richie nodded slowly. "'Kay."

Jon had to admit he, too, was a little surprised at his sudden surety. But it wasn't like he hadn't been thinking about this, almost constantly, for days. And now that it was becoming reality, he felt he had a plan falling into place. He could see this working out in a way that would make them both happy.

Very happy.

He smiled. "So I guess it's a date."

*****

It really wasn't a big deal, Jon thought as he lay in his bed in their new hotel room.

Kansas City? Yeah, he was pretty sure. He didn't care right now. He was thinking only of that cock. The one he'd had in his hand, his mouth, sliding against his own -- so many places he would never have imagined just a few weeks ago.

The one that was currently grinding against him, through layers of denim.

It's just sex, he thought as he nearly shoved his tongue down Richie's throat.

Jon's hands were spread out, on either side of his face, trying to hold his head still. But at the invasion Richie grunted and lifted up a little, fumbling at his waistband.

Jon relinquished his grip, in service of being stripped of his jeans. As the cool air hit his legs, he decided that if this went as he envisioned, it wouldn't even be that weird. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he was pretty sure Richie would be fine with it. More than fine.

Jon shivered as soft lips skimmed his inner thighs, then openly groaned when Richie exhaled a hot breath over his cock and began to mouth him through his boxers.

He grabbed a handful of hair to keep him there, but the bastard broke free and kept moving up his body -- nipping at memorized spots that made him gasp, until finally pausing to suck along the side of his neck.

"Don't wanna move too fast," Richie murmured, lips brushing his earlobe.

Jon squirmed against him and reached down to yank his t-shirt up. When Richie lifted to pull the shift off, Jon impatiently set to work at his jeans.

_A belt. The fuck?_

Richie's hands landed on his. "Someone's eager," he commented wryly.

"You complaining?" Jon challenged. Now that they were doing it, yeah, he wanted to get down to it.

"We're not on the clock," Richie reminded mildly, even as he reached for the condom and lube on the nightstand and tossed them on the bed. Jon's bed -- because of course that's where this had to happen.

As Richie shed himself of his jeans and boxers Jon sighed in relief, only to stare dumbly a moment later.

_Jesus Christ._

How was he gonna take that monster in?

"You OK?" he heard Richie ask.

"Yeah."

Jon grabbed the lube and pressed it into Richie's palm. "You've gotta put a ton on your fingers."

"I know," he replied softly, shakily, as he watched Jon slip his boxers down.

And yes, Jon had seen him poring over those pages from _The Joy of Gay Sex,_ but it all seemed so ridiculous now. Because how could the glib words and stupid drawings prepare you for fucking your not-gay best friend?

There were no chapters on what to do when your band found out, or your record label, or your fans.

Jon shut his eyes tightly against his thoughts. He knew what he wanted, at least for tonight. He turned onto his side to face Richie, curling in close and tossing a leg over his.

Richie kissed him lightly on the lips before speaking lowly. "Have you … tried putting anything inside?"

"My fingers," Jon said hoarsely, feeling his cheeks burn. He'd done it a couple times, in the bathtub. It wasn't so bad.

"OK," Richie almost whispered. "Tell me if it's too much, or … whatever you need to tell me."

Jon closed his eyes again. "It's fine. Just do it."

Richie's lips were on his again, and Jon eagerly responded, partly for the distraction. A moment later, though, he had to pull back, his breath catching as slicked fingertips began tracing a path between his balls and his entrance. When they stopped halfway and pressed up, he felt a jolt of electricity that took his breath away for a moment.

He twined himself a little tighter around Richie and moaned as that hot mouth dragged a wet line from his ear to the spot where his shoulder met his neck.

As lost as he was in the sensations, he couldn't help flinching when he felt a fingertip skirt his hole.

"OK?" Richie asked, voice quavering.

"Yeah," he rasped, digging his fingers into Richie's shoulder. "Do it."

Jon willed his muscles to relax as the finger slowly pushed in. He knew he could handle it -- he'd done more than that to himself. But it wasn't fear of the physical experience. It was that _Richie_ was doing this to him. It was that he wanted it so much, but couldn't shake the foreboding sense that it was so wrong.

He was just getting used to the sensation inside when a second finger joined in. He hissed, causing Richie to still.

"Too much?"

And honestly, this timid shit was getting on his nerves. He'd rather have a little pain than be babied.

"Just get on with it," Jon growled.

Almost instantly, he had to bite back an embarrassing whimper when Richie did as ordered. As the fingers probed deeper, there was a point where Jon thought he'd need to call a time-out -- but then the blessed sonuvabitch found that place in him. And suddenly his spine was arching, toes curling, mouth opening in a soundless response.

_Oh, fuck yeah._

"There," he managed to choke out.

He felt the curve of Richie's smile on his shoulder. "Here?" he asked innocently, curling his fingertips.

"Nngh."

The smile morphed into a chuckle. And even that sent tingles through Jon's overly charged skin.

He clamped his leg tighter still and began to bear down against the pressure moving into him. He was only vaguely aware of Richie inching down the front of his body, until he felt a tongue tip swirling around one of his nipples. Jon grabbed Richie's hair again, gripping so hard he knew it had to be unpleasant.

But he found he didn't care. They could both deal with a little pain tonight.

Except now, the initial pain had receded -- replaced by electrical pulses starting deep in his pelvis and spreading outward, into his cock, his balls, his inner thighs.

"God, Rich," he breathed, clenching the hair in his hands -- and realizing how addicted he'd become to that particular action.

The fingers kept moving in him, eventually sparking an internal ripple that rode up high into his belly and down through his thighs.

"Oh, fuck," Jon panted. "Rich … pull out."

Richie didn't seem to hear, as he amplified the efforts of his mouth and fingers. So Jon forcibly drew his head back.

"Stop."

Richie blinked a couple times, seeming a bit lost.

"Pull out," Jon repeated.

He barely contained a yelp as Richie slowly freed his fingers, leaving a dull ache behind.

"S-sorry," Richie said, his voice so gravelly Jon barely recognized it. "Was I too …?"

Jon ignored the question and pressed to sit.

"Get on your back," he commanded.

In his accelerated studies on gay sex, he'd decided that one position was clearly the winner.

"Oh," Richie said, looking surprised. "You wanna …?"

Jon grinned. "I'm gonna ride you. OK?"

The request was just to be polite, because he'd already decided how this was going to happen. He could be in control. There'd be a physical distance. No romance, no coddling, no unnecessary emotions.

He could simply close his eyes and use Richie like a sex toy. Just a good fuck between buddies.

He gave Richie a playful shove onto his back then moved to straddle his thighs.

"You like it this way, right?" he asked teasingly. "I bet you've given more rides than the Cyclone."

He didn't like to belabor the point, but he got the impression Richie didn't mind a mention of his slutty ways, in the right context.

Richie laughed and glanced off to the side. "Uh, yeah. I've had some satisfied customers."

Jon raised an eyebrow as he poured some lube into his hand. "And people think Disney World is America's theme park."

He wrapped his hand around Richie's hard cock, smiling at how his chest was already heaving, then started to stroke.

"Looks like you're almost ready, Cyclone."

Richie could only bite his lip and nod. After a few more strokes, Jon grabbed the condom and tossed it onto Richie's belly. He watched as shaky hands opened the wrapper then pulled the sheath on -- and it occurred to him that Richie was as nervous as he was, but not as good at covering it.

As business-like as possible, Jon used a generous amount of lube to coat the condom -- taking some odd comfort in Richie's increasingly ragged breathing as he worked.

"OK," Jon said, with a forced casualness that Richie would've seen right through if he weren't on the verge of an asthma attack.

Richie reached out with a trembling hand to grasp the base of his cock, and Jon scooted to crouch over his hips.

They locked eyes. "Don't push up," Jon murmured.

Richie simply nodded again.

Jon paused, reminding himself to focus on his breathing, and to aim his eyes anywhere other than his friend's face. Gingerly, he lowered down until just the tip of Richie's cock was breaching him.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

He pursed his lips, exhaling long and deep, and then descended a little more. He was concentrating so hard, he was jolted a bit when Richie moaned deeply -- seemingly from the pit of his belly.

"Christ," Jon gasped, not meaning for it to be out loud.

Richie slipped a hand to his hip. "G-go slow. Don't …"

"Don't push up," Jon repeated before easing himself down another degree. He just needed to get to that spot.

He glanced at Richie. His eyes were closed, lips pressed together, face flushed from the effort of not thrusting. And then Jon remembered he wasn't supposed to look at him. He lifted his gaze to the wall behind the headboard -- noticing, for the first time, the hideous painting there.

There was a rowboat with kids and maybe a grandpa, and Jon was struck by how obscene this all must look. It made him smile a little.

No romance. No coddling --

_Oh god._

There it was. This time more of a buzzing feeling spreading through his pelvis -- not as good as when Richie's fingers were massaging him, but not bad, either. He knew he just needed to move.

Slowly, he lifted up a bit then sank back down. Richie gasped, and Jon could feel him trembling against the strain of holding his hips still.

"God, Jonny," he choked out. "It's so …"

Jon leaned forward and planted his palms on Richie's chest. "Don't move yet," he said -- but his voice was strained now, and it came out as more of a plea than anything else.

His thighs were starting to burn, but gradually he found a rhythm and an angle that allowed him to build toward the same feeling from before. The waves emanating from some source he didn't know, to fill his whole core. He'd never experienced anything like it.

He pressed a little harder into Richie's chest, massaging the heels of his hands into the hardened nubs underneath them, and Richie arched up -- seemingly desperate to move in some way. Jon felt hands grasping both of his hips now.

"Jonny, can I ...?"

He looked at the painting. It was so fucking ugly.

"Yeah."

Richie groaned as he rocked his hips up to meet Jon's descent, and suddenly Jon was hit by the vibration of his own voice bouncing off the wall. Their timing was imperfect at first, but soon they were moving in instinctual rhythm.

It wasn't long before Jon's arms started to give out and he slumped a little closer to Richie. Breaking his own rule, he opened his eyes -- catching sight of Richie's face glowing in the low light, jaw slack and eyes blinking against tears. From the exertion, Jon told himself.

Then his vision swam and the sightline was lost. And he was mostly glad.

At some point, Richie's hand found his cock, but Jon immediately swatted it away.

"Not yet."

He was beginning to think it was possible he could come without his cock even being touched. But he didn't know if Richie could last that long.

Jon pushed himself more upright again. "Can you wait?"

Richie just pressed his head back into the pillow and whined shamelessly.

"You can do it," Jon encouraged, trying to grin. "You like being my sex toy, right?"

For a moment, Richie gazed at him with a look he couldn't define. Or didn't want to define. For some reason, he reached down and dragged his thumb across Richie's bottom lip.

Richie glanced down at Jon's hand then looked him in the eyes.

"I like what you like."

Jon felt a warmth spreading across his chest that almost pulled him away from what was happening below. He shut his eyes.

Why the fuck did Richie have to say that?

He gritted his teeth and started to pick up his pace, wanting the physical sensations to take over again. The heat flowing to the surface of his skin, the trickles of sweat at his temples, the sounds of the creaking bed, their intertwined moans -- everything that was raw and primal, and nothing else.

But then Richie's hands were gliding along his hips, the backs and sides of his thighs, any skin he could reach -- almost reverentially. And it was becoming impossible to keep holding up a barrier.

"Jonny," he panted. "I … _God._ "

The sound went straight to Jon's cock, and he couldn't help taking hold of himself.

"Almost there?" he grunted, stroking harder.

"Yeah." And then his hand was being pulled away, replaced by another he'd come to know well -- the warm, soft palm, the calloused fingertips.

In those final moments, the feeling of Richie in him, on him, and under him was so overwhelming, he couldn't restrain a drawn-out groan.

When he came, it was with a whole-body shudder he'd never felt before. Almost immediately his bones turned to jelly, but he managed to pull off and collapse onto his back.

He wasn't sure how long he just lay there, trembling, heart pounding into the wall of his chest. Eventually, though, he returned to reality when Richie placed a damp towel next to his hand.

_Oh yeah._

He remembered how he'd sensibly put the towels in place beforehand. Richie would never have thought of it.

Jon kept his eyes on the ceiling as he haphazardly cleaned up -- not ready to talk or even look yet. Because, he realized, he was an idiot. He'd actually convinced himself that if he picked the right position, they could fuck like it didn't matter. The way they'd fuck groupies or random girls.

Sometimes he was shocked at the ways he could delude himself when it was convenient.

He turned his head to see Richie lying on his side, chewing on his bottom lip and watching him intently.

"You OK?" Richie asked quietly.

He nodded.

"Sure?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

Jon looked back to the ceiling. He was fine. And he was also certain they'd just made a terrible, irrevocable mistake.

He felt a weight on his belly and looked down to see Richie's hand.

"You sure?" he asked again.

Jon laid his hand on Richie's. "Yeah. I'm sure."


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew Richie wasn't trying to crowd him. But it was just fucking hard to get a minute by himself anymore.

The water pressure in their current Ramada sucked. And for that, Jon was grateful.

He could just stand under the spray, waiting for the suds to rinse out of his mane, and Richie couldn't bother him. Because if he heard another, "Sure you're OK?" or saw one more puppy-eyed stare, he was going to lose it.

There was no way he could answer that question truthfully. He knew he was definitely not OK, but he couldn't articulate why -- at least not out loud, with Richie looking at him.

Based on their awkward morning-after, Richie seemed to think he'd hurt him, or disappointed him, and Jon was letting him believe that for now. It was a dick move, he realized, but it seemed better than the alternative.

"No, you're really awesome at sex -- I just think it might be the worst mistake I've ever made."

A knock on the door pulled him from his reverie.

_Jesus Christ._

"What?" he demanded, immediately cringing at the harsh tone.

There was a pause before he heard Richie's voice. "You almost done? I need to get ready, too."

Jon blew out a breath. "Just a minute."

He knew Richie wasn't trying to crowd him. But it was just so fucking hard to get a minute by himself anymore. And now they had to go do a radio interview. In Kansas City. And he'd have to do almost all the talking.

It seemed like a lot to ask right now, for a tour that wasn't even their own.

When he finally dragged himself out of the bathroom, Richie was sitting at the foot of the bed -- _his_ bed -- with a full-on puppy face in effect.

Jon looked down and strode past him, toward his suitcase.

"Sorry," he mumbled, just to fill up the space. "There's, like, no water pressure."

"Jon?"

"You better get in there," he rambled on, making a show of looking at the clock. "It takes you forever to get your hair right."

"It's radio."

"I know." Jon tried to appear very involved in choosing between a leopard- or zebra-print scarf.

They were silent for a few moments before Richie spoke up. "The zebra one."

Jon raised an eyebrow.

"You always wear the leopard one," Richie explained, pushing to his feet.

Jon nodded. "Guess so."

He watched as Richie walked away and closed the door behind him. Then he looked down at the scarves in his hands. His impulse was to wear the leopard one. He didn't know why he even owned the other one.

It took a few seconds more to register that he was paralyzed. Over choosing a scarf.

"I'm cracking up."

He dropped the leopard scarf, because there was a chance Richie was right. And anyway, it was only radio.

*****

It turned out the hotel had shitty TV, too.

Jon kept hitting the remote, thinking he could change the hopeless situation by force of will. But the same infomercial images kept passing by no matter how hard he pressed the button.

Once again, he'd bailed on the guys after the show. But this time, Richie hadn't followed him.

Not that Jon blamed him. He'd been clear about his desire for alone time. And he knew Richie had to be fed up with him anyway.

Still, that didn't keep him from checking the clock every five minutes. When he glanced again it was just past 3 a.m.

He punched the button under his thumb, trying not to think about where Richie could be. Because when he thought about it, he automatically pictured him with some random girl.

And that set off such a flare of jealousy -- primal, angry jealousy -- it was a little disturbing.

He was so caught up in his caveman moment, he flinched at the sound of a key in the lock. As the door opened, he squinted against the harsh yellow light flooding in from the hallway, hearing that familiar, gruff, "Hey."

From Richie's body language as he walked in -- shoulders slumped, moving slowly -- it was unlikely he'd just scored. So Jon let himself breathe.

"Hey." He searched for something more to say. "Um, the guys still out?"

That got a _hmm._

He watched as Richie wordlessly stripped down to his boxers and headed straight for bed -- his own bed. And even though he didn't have the right, Jon felt a flash of disappointment.

"I'll, uh, turn this off," he volunteered, wanting to do something nice and finding that was all he had.

"Doesn't matter," Richie murmured, turning onto his stomach.

His eyes were closed, so Jon was able to covertly study his face, glowing blue in the light from the TV.

He had such a mishmash of a face, Jon thought. Kind of babyish, but not exactly. Kind of soft and dimply, but sharp and angular. Full of parts that shouldn't go, but did. And for some reason, he liked looking at it.

Richie suddenly opened his eyes, and Jon looked away -- too late, he knew. Still, he pretended to be immersed in a commercial for chef's knives.

"Jonny?"

He stared steadfastly ahead. "Yeah?"

"Did you not like it?"

Jon felt his gut clench. He'd known the question was coming, but he didn't want to talk about it now, at three a.m. in a fucking Ramada.

He turned his head, aiming his eyes at the carpet. "No, I did."

When Richie didn't answer, he forced himself to make eye contact.

"Really," he said, more firmly. "I mean, it was weird at first. But then … I liked it."

Richie seemed to be trying to judge his honesty, through the untrustworthy light of a late-night infomercial.

"Then why are you pissed at me?"

Jon balked. "I'm not. I'm not mad -- I'm just … "

"Stuck in your head?"

He nodded, a little relieved. Sometimes he was grateful when Richie could finish his thoughts.

There was a stretch of silence, punctuated by the sounds of knives chopping. And then Richie cleared his throat.

"Well … I liked it, too."

Jon felt a smile threatening, so he covered it with a _duh_ face. "Well, yeah."

Richie smiled half-heartedly, and Jon felt a little guilty for making light of the honest moment.

"What's wrong?"

Richie flipped onto his back. "Nothing."

Jon knew by now to simply wait.

"It's just …" Richie began, looking at the ceiling. "How long do you think you'll be stuck in your head?"

Jon couldn't help laughing at the question.

Richie looked at him and Jon could see a little smile -- maybe more genuine than before.

"Um, I can't say," he replied, truthfully. "I don't actually plan these things … Why?"

Richie scratched at an eyebrow. "Well. I was thinking … I wanna know what it's like."

Jon felt his heart leap into his throat. He was sure he knew what Richie was saying, but he still needed to ask.

"What do you mean?"

Richie sighed. "You know."

"Oh." It was a pathetic answer, but it was all that came out.

Richie glanced at him. "I mean, if you don't want to ..."

He was trying so hard to sound casual, but Jon heard the little catch in his voice. And it made him hate himself. Because hell yeah, he wanted to. He wanted to fucking pounce over there and do it right now.

But he also thought that maybe they should never do it again.

"No," he said slowly. "It's not that I don't want to. I just … I think we shouldn't talk about it right now."

He could see Richie working his jaw. "OK," he gave in. "We can talk later."

This time, though, he didn't try to camouflage his feelings, and the disappointment rang loud and clear. Jon fell a little deeper into self-loathing.

"I'm going to sleep," Richie said, rolling onto his side.

"'Kay," Jon said to his back. "Good night."

"'Night."

He looked back to the TV. Someone was using the knives to cut a tin can, which seemed really fucking stupid. But he stared at the screen anyway, because there was nothing else to do.

*****

At some point, Jon realized, he must have dropped off -- though not for long. When he opened his eyes, the TV was still on, and Richie was still in the same position.

He rubbed his eyes and reached blindly for the remote, meaning to shut the TV off. But as he glanced at the screen, he saw a familiar scene. A deer licking a ridiculously happy-looking fox.

"Seriously?" he croaked.

His first thought was to turn it off, but something made him pause. He never did see how the story ended, after all. He'd been too distracted by Richie licking him.

He could recall the part that was on now, with the Science Guy running down the reasons why a deer and a fox would _forge such an odd relationship._

_These random acts are probably nothing more than that -- with no significance beyond satisfying a curiosity, or dealing with boredom._

The narrator -- the one Richie insisted on calling Marlin -- cut in. _So maybe we don't need any profound explanation. Maybe the motivation behind this interspecies mingling is quite simple._

_Getting licked just feels good._

Jon snorted, remembering. "Yeah," he grumbled softly. "It starts a lot of fucking trouble, too."

He looked toward the other bed, where Richie was still dead to the world. How was it so easy for him to sleep when their existence as they knew it was falling apart?

He turned back to the screen, where a new guy had appeared -- a different Science Guy, who was explaining the ways of the island.

The little foxes, it turned out, were generally friendly to all creatures, not just deer.

_They even approach humans,_ Science Guy said. _They're known for begging people for food, and stealing peanut butter when no one is looking. The little scallywags._

Jon smiled. Yeah, Richie was definitely the fox.

_Even so, this fox's behavior toward his deer companion is special. Unique._

They cut to a shot of the deer, innocently chewing on some leaves, and Jon shook his head. The poor sap.

"You have no idea what that slutty fox is getting you into," he muttered.

It occurred to him that he was talking to a TV, with his own slutty fox in the bed next to him. But that was what he'd become apparently.

_Both of these creatures,_ Science Guy intoned, _seem to get something from this bond that they simply don't get elsewhere._

Jon watched as the fox groomed the deer's face. He was surprised some cutesy Disney music wasn't playing in the background, but this new Science Guy seemed to be taking the relationship pretty seriously.

_These kinds of connections,_ he said, _almost certainly happen more often than we realize. These animals aren't aware of the cameras. They aren't worried that someone will see them. They aren't worried about what anyone else thinks._

There was a pause as the deer nuzzled the fox's ear.

_Truly, only humans do that._

Jon blinked. Yeah, no kidding. Did the Science Guy think that was profound?

That's what it was to be human, wasn't it? You had to think about the future, and plan, and worry. You had to give a shit about what the other animals thought. You had to protect yourself, and not just in the physical, survival-of-the-fittest way.

The deer and the fox were touching noses now.

Jon looked again toward the other bed. Richie was still facing away from him, his body slowly rising and falling with his breath. Jon wanted to just crawl in there with him. But now it was scary. Because it meant something now, and he wasn't ready to deal with that.

Unfortunately, he was human.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon shook his head. "You're like a dirty Boy Scout."

This was so wrong. This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid -- at least for a while, until he could get his head clear. But he also had zero desire to stop it.

Because Richie had him against the wall, with a leg insinuated between his so that there was no breathing space between them.

This hotel room -- Wichita or some shit -- smelled vaguely of sulfur and cigarettes. But with Richie pressed up against him, he inhaled a mix of girly lavender soap, expensive shampoo and leather.

He couldn't argue with that.

He couldn't argue with the soft lips gliding along his jaw, or the hand that had drifted down to cup him through his jeans. Definitely not that.

He groaned, in relief and need, as Richie's lips moved to hover over his ear.

"I want you to fuck me."

"Christ," Jon gasped, instinctively pushing into Richie's hand.

He felt Richie's smile against his skin. "You like that idea."

Jon's knees went a little wobbly. "Uh, yeah. But … we were supposed to talk about it."

"We're talking now," Richie murmured, running his knuckles over Jon's rapidly hardening cock.

He inhaled sharply. "True. But we're talking while your hand's on my dick."

Richie leaned back a little and grinned. "I thought it would help state my case."

Jon let out a shaky laugh. "Good call." With a herculean effort, he reached for Richie's wrist and gently pulled his hand away.

"But maybe we should talk for real."

Richie sighed heavily. "Why?"

He shook his wrist free and slipped his hand to the back of Jon's head, drawing him in. Jon just closed his eyes and gave into it.

"You wanted this, right?" Richie whispered between kisses, sounding just a bit unsure.

Jon hummed, sliding a hand to that leather-clad ass -- because he was suddenly tired of thinking. He felt Richie's breath next to his ear again.

"I need you. Please?"

Jon heard himself moaning before he could stop it. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

_Nothing._

He grasped Richie's shoulders and began to push him back toward the bed. Richie's bed this time. They landed there in an awkward heap, and Jon immediately started fumbling with Richie's shirt buttons.

"You're, uh, completely ready?" he asked, partly to distract from the fact that his hands were trembling.

"Uh-huh." Jon felt palms roaming to his ass, and bit back an embarrassing sound.

"Jesus," he griped instead. "How many buttons are on this fucking shirt?"

Richie smiled up at him, and he had to look away, toward his inexplicably clumsy fingers.

Even as he worked, he paused to ask himself why he was letting this happen. It was going to make everything worse -- make it even harder to pull them back from the cliff.

But in the back of his mind was another voice. The one saying it was already too late.

When he finally got the shirt open, he wasted no time latching onto a nipple. Because why be fucking coy at this point? From the sound of Richie's wanton moan, he agreed. The way he kneaded Jon's ass, the way he wrapped a leg around his to solidify their connection -- there was nothing ambiguous about his feelings.

When that realization hit, Jon had to pull off and catch his breath.

"What?" Richie asked, raising his head.

"Nothing."

Like a good soldier, he dove back in -- hearing a long, tremulous sigh as he kissed a path to Richie's shoulder, his collarbone, the cord of muscle along his neck. He nuzzled his ear, wanting to be close when he spoke lowly.

"How do you want it?'

Jon rolled his hips, pulling gasps from both of them, feeling the grip on his ass tighten.

"I, um." Richie wriggled underneath him. "On our sides, s-so no one's …"

He left the thought unfinished, but his intention was clear. Jon lifted up a bit and pushed some especially errant strands of hair away from Richie's face.

"Whatever you want, baby."

Richie's eyes widened, in obvious surprise. And honestly, Jon wasn't sure where his easy words were coming from. But he decided not to question it, for once. He leaned down and found Richie's lips instead.

The next minutes seemed to pass in a half-dream. Jon wasn't purposely disconnecting himself, like before. It was more like he could only focus on one sensory experience at a time -- the heat trapped between them, the salty taste at the hollow of Richie's throat, the needy little whimper each time he rocked their hips together.

Haphazardly they got each others' clothes off, pulling and pushing as they sought more skin.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief when they were finally, completely skin on skin. As nervous as he was, the familiar sensation and scent felt grounding. He slid down Richie's body, nipping and tasting along the way, before taking his cock into his mouth. That earth-bitter flavor hit his tongue, known and almost comforting now.

But he was only allowed a few lingering moments before Richie's hand was in his hair, pulling him off.

"No," he protested, chest heaving. "I don't … want this to end too soon."

Jon smiled in understanding and crawled his way back up, kissing Richie on the lips and tasting the contrasting sweetness there.

"I'll be right back," he whispered.

"Drawer," Richie said, smile tugging at his lips.

Jon shook his head. "You're like a dirty Boy Scout."

The smile broke out fully and Jon matched it, in a way he would normally avoid.

But he needed the respite, he realized, because as soon as he pulled the bottle and condom from the drawer, his hands started shaking again.

Any time he'd imagined this scenario, it was never romantic. In his fantasies, he just pounded Richie into the mattress until their bones turned to liquid. But now that it was real, the only coherent thought Jon had was that he didn't want to hurt him, in any way.

Richie curled onto his side and Jon just stared, taking a few steadying breaths, before nestling in behind. He rested his palm on Richie's thigh, and though the skin was searing-hot, the muscle underneath was shivering.

He took some comfort in the fact they were both freaking out.

"Can you bend your knee up?" he asked, barely recognizing the gentle voice coming from his lips.

Richie exhaled shakily and pulled his knee up toward his chest. For a moment, Jon felt overwhelmed from the sight alone, so he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Richie's shoulder.

"Uh, just -- just tell me if it's too much, OK?"

"Yeah," Richie said, voice thin.

Jon swallowed against the lump in his throat as he coated his fingers in the sticky liquid -- willing himself to think less and feel more.

He kissed the side of Richie's neck. "I'll go slow."

Despite the promise, Richie instantly flinched when Jon's fingertips skimmed the sensitive place behind his balls. "Sorry," he gasped.

"S'ok," Jon whispered, lips still grazing the curve of Richie's neck.

He traced the same line a few more times, until some of the tension eased under his touch, then tried an experimental tease -- circling his index finger around the entrance. Richie's breath caught.

"I know," Jon murmured in sympathy. "Once I'm in, it'll feel good. Promise."

"'Kay."

Jon started to mouth his neck again, partly for the distraction, as he eased his finger in past the first ring of muscle. Richie hissed softly and shifted, and Jon waited for him to relax before pushing farther.

When he did, Richie grunted and grabbed onto one of the pillows in front of him.

Jon stilled. "Should I stop?"

"No. Just …"

Jon kissed his shoulder. "OK. I'll only stop if you tell me."

Richie nodded, clutching the pillow.

Jon worked his finger a little higher, knowing if he just found that sweet spot --

"Oh, god," Richie gasped, arching his spine and pushing his hips back.

Jon smiled. _Found it._

"That good?"

Richie just groaned weakly, hips still pressing back. Jon felt his cock responding, but he knew he had to take this slower than his body wanted. He simply kept pressing against that spot, in rhythm, until Richie's little sounds were blending into each other. When he slid a second finger in, there was much less resistance.

"Jonny … _God._ "

Jon kissed the space between his shoulder blades. "You can call me that if you want."

Richie let out a surprised laugh. But moments later, he started squirming impatiently, bearing down onto Jon's fingers.

"Fuck," he grunted. "I -- I want you."

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a rush of blood to his cock. "You sure?"

"Yes," Richie insisted, an edge to his voice. "Now."

_Jesus._ This could be the death of him.

Jon's heart was pounding as he slowly pulled out and started fishing around for the condom. It was so bad he had to pause to purse his lips and slow his breathing down.

From what he could tell, Richie was having his own struggles -- rubbing himself against the mattress and openly whimpering at the sound of the condom wrapper tearing.

By the time Jon lay down on his side, his whole body was trembling. He hadn't felt so scared since his first time as a clueless teenager.

Actually, he realized, this was scarier.

He lined himself up against Richie's back, wrapping an arm around him to pull him tighter to his chest. "I'll go slow," he murmured again. "Tell me what you need."

Richie just laid a hand on top of his.

He used his leg to nudge Richie's knee a little higher, kissing whatever random patch of skin was under his lips before starting to push in.

Richie gasped and instinctively tensed, and Jon was sure the wait would end up killing him.

"OK, baby?"

"Yeah," Richie almost wheezed. "Keep going."

Jon pushed in a little farther, and then a little farther, and --

_Oh fucking Christ god._

He groaned without reservation at the silky tight heat that was gradually enveloping him. He'd never felt anything quite like it. And for an instant, he forgot all about Richie, and moving slowly, and just pushed farther into the sensation.

"Oh, god," he gasped. "You're so …"

He couldn't find the words, so he just dragged his lips across Richie's upper back, tasting the salty-sweet combination of soap and sweat.

Richie had buried his head in the pillow, babbling a string of words Jon couldn't make out. But he could feel the vibration of Richie's voice in his own chest, and it just added to his urgency to move.

In this position, he was forced to go slowly -- which was perfect, he knew. But he was shaking with the effort, gulping for air, coming apart in slow-motion. It was torture and bliss at the same time.

Suddenly Richie leaned back into him, reaching a hand to Jon's hip, pulling him in closer -- in an unmistakable gesture.

"Christ, Rich," he moaned, thrusting harder, grazing his fingernails over a nipple.

Richie cried out at a volume Jon had never pulled from him before. And he knew he needed to hear it again.

Jon pushed him partway onto his belly, to get more leverage. Almost immediately, he found a surer rhythm, and it ripped a groan from somewhere deep in his belly.

Richie let his head loll again, fisting the sheet under his hand. "Oh fuck," he almost sobbed. "Jonny … I …"

Jon could only whimper at the plea, because his breath had grown too hot for his lungs. But it was fine. Perfect. He was still wrapped in silk, still being allowed in so deeply. Richie trusted him enough to let him in. Wanted him enough.

It was almost too much.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god." Jon wasn't sure if he was chanting it in his head or out loud. But maybe it was out loud, because Richie started pushing back against him a little harder.

"Fuck." Jon reached around and took hold of that heavy, hot cock, and they fell back onto their sides again.

"Like that," Richie panted. "Please, Jonny."

Jon wasn't sure if his body or heart would give out first. But Richie was furiously pushing his hips into Jon's grip, and he couldn't let him down now. If it killed him, so be it.

And then Richie was coming into his hand, moaning so loud Jon wondered, for the first time, if their sounds were penetrating the walls. It was fleeting worry, though, because all of the energy within him started pooling toward that single point, deep inside.

In those seconds of concentration then release, there was nothing else. Just a feeling of being in and wrapped around a warm body that wanted him so bad -- for reasons he didn't understand sometimes.

Jon held on to that warmth tightly as he came, and for a while after -- just in case he might, in fact, be dying. When he did start to slowly pull free, Richie reached back to grasp his hip again, holding him there.

Jon had no idea why, but something about the contact caused his eyes to well up. He sniffed and kissed the sweat-dampened skin at the nape of Richie's neck. And then there were hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn't even wipe them away, because his arms were still wrapped around Richie, and Richie was clinging to one of his hands.

Eventually, Jon gently freed his hand and pulled out. But he stayed nestled against Richie's back -- partly because he didn't want to face him just yet. Jon pressed his lips to his shoulder, and if a couple tears landed there, he let it be.

Because why the fuck not?

"I'm sorry," he heard himself saying.

Richie tensed under his arms. "Why?" he asked, voice hoarse. "I'm fine. I'm … great."

Jon shook his head, not even completely sure what he wanted to say. "No. I'm sorry I'm always …"

He sighed. "I'm sorry I can't just let it feel good."

Somehow, Richie knew not to turn over and look at him.

"It's OK," he replied quietly. "It's fine."

Jon sniffed again. "It scares the shit out of me."

Richie lifted his head a little. "What does? Feeling good?"

"No. It's …"

He kissed Richie's shoulder and closed his eyes. "I love you."

There. He'd fucking said it. And it was like a thousand-pound weight had been lifted -- and also like he was falling off that cliff.

At first, Richie was stock-still, and that feeling of free-falling started to morph into something like panic.

But then Richie squeezed his hand.

"I know," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Jon's eyes flew open. "You _know?_ That's all you're gonna say?"

"No."

Richie slowly turned over then looked him in the eyes.

"I love you, too … But you knew that."

Jon just stared, contemplating that. "Yeah," he eventually agreed. "But it's nice to hear."

Richie smiled softly. "Yeah … Are you still scared shitless?"

"Yeah," Jon answered instantly.

Richie kept smiling. "Me, too."

Jon couldn't help smiling at the confession. He reached out to push some of the hair off of Richie's forehead.

"Your hair looks ridiculous," he said. "It looks like someone just fucked you."

"Hmm. I'll comb it or something before we leave."

Jon kept pushing at his hair. "You OK?"

Richie gave him a knowing look. "I'm fine. A little sore. But good."

Jon started arranging little tufts on top of Richie's head. "But was it … good? I mean, did you …?"

"Yeah. I liked it."

Jon felt a flutter in his chest, but kept his fingers diligently working.

"Hmm." He stuck his tongue out as he put the finishing touches on his creation. "There. Now you definitely look like you just got fucked by your lead singer."

Richie held his gaze before answering. "Good."

Jon nodded. "Good."

"Well," Richie said after a beat, "I'm fucking exhausted."

As soon as he heard the words, Jon felt it in his bones. "Me, too," he said, reaching for the comforter they'd kicked aside.

Once they'd settled in, Richie leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. "I hope you get some sleep for once," he murmured.

Jon smiled, feeling like he honestly had a good shot. "Yeah. I think I will."

END


End file.
